


Prince Tony, Fabulous He, Tony E. Starkle

by layersofsilence



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, M/M, contains too many references that will cause you to want to revisit other better things probably, so shippers uh be warned i guess, someone pointed out that the ironpanther isn't real which is fair since this is ridiculous crack, unsubtly based on a Thing i saw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 17:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12940215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofsilence
Summary: The true story of how Tony Stark got to be King of Wakanda. (spoiler alert: he didn't)





	Prince Tony, Fabulous He, Tony E. Starkle

**Author's Note:**

> uh as some of you might be able to guess this was 100% inspired by the work being discussed in [this tumblr post](http://viperbranium.tumblr.com/post/168238892434/unclesteeb-gothlumberjack-onyourleftbooob) and the comments on that work. i saw the post, read the comments, and then smashed my keyboard a lot. after a few hours this wild fic appeared! fun times
> 
> (also @ my beautiful FLPR recipient YOUR FIC IS COMING, I PROMISE)

In one of the many rooms in one of the many wings on one of the many floors of the Wakandan palace, Steve and Bucky sleep peacefully. Bucky had been brought out of cryosleep the day before, and the image of the two super-soldiers sleeping in each other’s arms would be incredibly sweet and touching if one was unaware of what they had been up to prior to the sleep. Bucky murmurs something in his sleep; without waking up, Steve gently brings a hand up to caress his hair, and the two of them snuggle closer together.

They have nothing at all to do with this story, but hopefully you enjoyed the description.

In fact, this story begins in the present moment. It is difficult to know exactly when this present moment is because of the inconsistencies in the universe which one could, if one desired, drive a truck through, but nevertheless: at some present moment, this story begins.

And in this very present, very visceral and extremely real moment, T’Challa was feeling the crown weigh down on him. It was weighing very heavily, unusually heavily, with some semblance of…intent? It weighed like a rock, or an elephant, which T’Challa naturally had much experience with, because elephants populate parts of Africa, which naturally means they are everywhere, and ridden to school like bicycles. Because Africa is made up of one sole culture, obviously.

Back in the story, the crown was weighing heavily and with intent. The crown had also attained unintentional cryptid status, because the author has never seen T’Challa depicted wearing a crown but it’s a traditional European symbol of royalty so obviously he has to have it around somewhere, and the somewhere is here. This heavy and unusual weight that the crown has attained is a metaphor, if you hadn’t realised, but T’Challa goes and ruins the artistry of it by rotating his neck. Joints crack and muscles unknot, and the weight of the crown becomes substantially more manageable, which was not what this writer had intended. She shakes her fist at her screen in anger.

The unspecified but deeply important meeting that he had just come out of had reached a satisfactory conclusion, but one that he still wanted to talk to his sister about. He was good at diplomacy, but she could see straight to the heart of a matter where T’Challa might find himself trying to peer around fog. “I’d like to visit Shuri now,” he tells the Dora Milaje guarding him, and they look absurdly concerned.

“Shuri? What is it?” one of them asks.

“It’s autumn village in Japanese, but that’s not important right now,” T’Challa says, setting off towards his sister’s workshop.

The corridors in the palace are not meant to reflect sound, so it is testament to the racket that Shuri is making in her workshop that T’Challa can hear loud banging and louder booming before he even turns into the corridor. He can’t help but frown slightly at the noise; he could have sworn that Shuri had not been so loud before they imported in that American businessman in the interest of technological cooperation and also getting Steve Rogers to stop moping. But when he opened the door and waved at her she had an elated smile on her face, and the explosions were, he could see, safely contained within a transparent metal tube, so it probably wasn’t dangerous.

“Shuri,” he says in greeting. She takes her goggles off and, although he had not thought it possible, grins even wider, which is flattering.

“T'Challa,” she says. “Have you met Mr. Stark?”

“Only briefly,” T’Challa admits, thinking of the mild greetings they’d exchanged when the man had gotten off the plane. It had been electric, and just to prove that point lightning had streaked its way through the sky while they greeted each other, and the clouds had seemed to shake from the resulting boom of thunder. T’Challa does not necessarily want a repeat of dangerous lightning events, but it is only polite to shake hands with someone who has already stretched theirs out, so he reaches forward.

He knows that this was the wrong decision as soon as their skin makes contact. The simple handshake is so overwhelmingly mind-blowingly good that the very Earth stops spinning.

The sea, no longer tethered to the Earth by centrifugal force, rumbles and begins to redistribute itself. In the interest of not causing massive tsunamis and also not sliding off the face of the Earth and into the void of space, T’Challa hastily reclaims his hand and nods in the vague direction of Mr. Stark.

“We’re working on new sonic power tools,” Shuri says cheerfully.

“I definitely had a purpose in coming down here to see you,” T’Challa says, “but currently I am feeling a strong urge to change the order of succession.” If T’Challa had been able to speak or act freely he probably would have been shattering the fourth wall to stop the writer from doing this, but as it is he only stood, somewhat devoid of adverbs, in the room, which was fittingly somewhat devoid of adjectives, because this author is lazy.

“That is indeed strange,” Shuri says thoughtfully. In the interests of this story, her reaction is far too reasonable. “I am feeling far too calm about this news,” she points out. “I am not quite feeling myself.”

“Nope, you’re feeling the rubber in your hand,” Tony Stark says agreeably. “Which consistency did you like better, again?”

“It feels like a premonition,” T’Challa says. “I am positive that soon I will inexplicably die of a vague but fatal illness which will not be named. Or possibly simply vanish. ”

“That is sound reason,” Shuri says peacefully, and hands the two rubber grips in her hand back to Tony. “I prefer the second one, but the first one might be more efficient if one takes into account that scientific thing.” Nailed it, the author thought happily.

“I do not want to alarm anyone,” T’Challa says, “but I am currently feeling a strong urge to give my throne to Tony Stark.”

One of the Dora Milaje staggers. They all remain conveniently quiet, even though they all have strong arguments against the suggestion and would not normally hold back in a private setting such as this.

“I am feeling a strong urge to accept,” Tony – Mr. Stark – Tony – says. T’Challa meets his eyes, and fireworks go off in the explosion tube thing.

“That was slightly accelerated,” Shuri observes. “They were not meant to go off for another two minutes.”

“It’s just responding to the raw sexual chemistry in the room,” Tony Stark points out.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Shuri says, stuffing some more deceptively harmless-looking material inside the tube.

“No, I meant with me and your brother,” Tony says. “We’re clearly meant for each other.”

“You have been around each other for a combined total of around two minutes,” Shuri points out. “Only a few hundred words, even.”

The writer had unfortunately forgotten all about the Dora Milaje at this point, so they decided to seize the means of production and take over the story, for Wakanda.

“Your Majesty,” one of them says. She remains unnamed for stylistic reasons, which is to say the author hadn’t done any research at all into African customs and didn’t know what any of the Dora Milaje even could be named. “Tony Stark is possibly the worst choice in this entire room to choose as next in line.”

“What’s that?” T’Challa asks, somewhat absently.

“He’s not Wakandan,” one of the other bodyguards says. “He’s American. His business suffered while he was CEO –”

“That was Obie,” Tony grumbles.

“He didn’t even realise the mismanagement for years,” a third bodyguard says. They’re multiplying. More and more of them coming into the room while the writer is distracted.

“I don’t even think he’s here on a legitimate visa,” someone shouts from the back. This seems to be taken as a universal signal for everyone in the castle to pile into the room and shout one (1) reason why Tony is not a good choice for king.

“Or any visa at all!”

“You imported him! I checked the ship records and it said his ship only contained crackers! I’m _hungry_!”

“He doesn’t even go here!” someone who has evidently watched Mean Girls yells.

“He knows nothing of our traditions!”

“He doesn’t speak the language!”

“It doesn’t make sense!”

“He’s white!”

“We have never been conquered!”

“Never been colonised!”

“That’s the same thing!”

“No it’s not!”

A fistfight breaks out somewhere in the room over the definition of conquered vs. colonised. Since the author does not know the difference and is too lazy to research it, it will no longer be commented upon, although readers can be assured that it is taking place for the rest of the story.

“We don’t respect him!”

“No king has ever changed the line of succession like that!”

“This is imperialism!”

“Colonialism!”

“We would rather be a diplomacy!”

“Why aren’t we a diplomacy? Who needs monarchs?” someone else yells. It is unmistakeably Erik Killmonger’s voice. Why is Erik Killmonger in this story? That is a good question. Probably because the author is stupidly excited for Black Panther (2018) no matter how many times she mistypes it as Black Panter, which happens uncomfortably often and always makes her think of a vaguely racist porno. “We need to transform! Bring on the autonomous collective! Bring on the anarcho-syndicalist commune!”

Sadly, while his political views were sound, he had chosen names which were too long, and found that partway through the second syllable everyone stopped listening to him. He promptly stormed off in a sulk to have a quarter-life crises and reinvent himself.

“I don’t even know anything about ruling a country,” Tony suddenly finds himself able to realise, once the author has forgotten about him in favour of trying to find a natural way to get rid of the absurdly reasonable and logical crowd.

“He doesn’t know anything about ruling a country!” someone yells.

“He just said that!”

“He can’t expect to, to wield supreme executive power just cause some overgrown tabby threw a crown at him!”

“Your sister is right here!”

“Your sister is right here,” Shuri repeats, because the author has forgotten about her, too. “Hey. _Hey_. Don’t change the line of succession! Your sister is right here! What were you thinking!” The crowd - the author wants to label them a mob, but apart from those two fistfighters no violence is occurring - agrees with her vociferously.

“I –” T’Challa says, and blinks a few times. “I don’t think I _was_ thinking. Why would I do that?” he implored. Nobody had an answer for him. Erik Killmonger shouts something from his specially-labelled sulking-beanbag about showing respect, loudly enough that the writer hears it and puts it in the story. “If only there was some greater unknown power I could blame my actions on,” T’Challa says mournfully. “But on the plus side, I’m probably not going to die now. The premonitionary feeling has gone.”

“Maybe there is something you can blame your actions on,” Shuri whispers, feeling a dread sort of realisation creeping up on her. When she looks around things look uncomfortably black-and-white and letter-shaped. “I feel like this…this might not be _real_.”

“I think we might be _constructs_ ,” T’Challa replies, equally hushed, in the hope that the author will not notice him saying this. It is a useless hope; the author sees all.

“I think the writer has taken a hammer to the fourth wall in spectacular style,” Tony says. The crowd all go silent and stop what they're doing (except the fistfighters, who continue fighting cheerfully, but a lot more quietly, to contribute to the dramatic silence) to look around at the walls, but apart from expanding rather unnaturally to accommodate the large group of rapidly multiplying people they all appear to be fine. “Also, we should go and sort my visa situation,” Tony says with a frown. “Did you really just import me?”

“Yes,” Shuri says, without remorse. "And I'll export you right back out if you take my place in the line of succession."

At this point, the author realises that these characters have completely gotten away from her, and that seeing all is different from controlling all. She decides to cut her losses, and give this story up as a lost cause before it makes her do something radical like research African and Wakandan histories and traditions so that she can write a respectful story about a race and culture she doesn’t belong to.

Meanwhile, though, Erik Killmonger, having braided his hair into dreadlocks and started wearing hipster glasses, finally manages to get his political views down to one-syllable words. Putting these on pamphlets turns out to be wildly popular within a select group (his mum and her boyfriend, who he hates), and he successfully starts leading a revolution, not live and definitely not free, brought to your cinema screens probably by Acura and Audi and Coca-Cola, to name only a few.

**Author's Note:**

> none of the stuff i referenced belongs to me. kudos to you if you catch them, though
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://layersofsilences.tumblr.com)


End file.
